Because she wanted it so much, because
she’d campaigned all spring and half the summer,
because she was twelve and was old enough,
because she would be responsible and pay for it herself,
because it was her mantra, breakfast, lunch, and dinner,
because she would do it even if we said no—
her father and I argued until we finally said
okay, just a little one in the front
and don’t ask for any more, and, also,
no double pierces in the future, is that a deal?
She couldn’t wait, we drove straight to town,
not to our regular beauty parlor, but the freaky one¬ half
halfway house, half community center—
where they showed her the sample card of swatches,
each silky hank a flame-tipped paintbrush dipped in dye.
I said no to Deadly Nightshade. No to Purple Haze.
No to Atomic Turquoise. To Green Envy. To Electric Lava
that glows neon orange under black light.
No to Fuchsia Shock. To Black-and-Blue.
To Pomegranate Punk. I vetoed Virgin Snow.
And so she pulled a five out of her wallet, plus the tax,
and chose the bottle of dye she carried carefully
all the car ride home, like a little glass vial
of blood drawn warm from her arm.
Oh she was hurrying me! Darting up the stairs,
double-locking the bathroom door,
opening it an hour later, sidling up to me, saying, “Well?”
For a second, I thought that she’d somehow
gashed her scalp. But it was only her streak,Vampire Red.
Later, brushing my teeth, I saw her mess—
the splotches where dye splashed
and stained the porcelain, and in the waste bin,
Kleenex wadded up like bloodied sanitary napkins.
I saw my girl—Persephone carried off to Hell,
who left behind a mash of petals on the trampled soil.
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